


In which John goes in search of lost time

by sherlock221Bismymuse



Series: In which..... [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Love, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 15:32:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14876456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/pseuds/sherlock221Bismymuse
Summary: Set in the aftermath of the Fall.John wanders through the streets and alleys of London in search of lost time.





	In which John goes in search of lost time

**Author's Note:**

> Marcel Proust: “But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone, more fragile but more enduring, more immaterial, more persistent, more faithful, remain poised a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.”

John wanders through the streets and alleys of London in search of lost time.

.

.

He stands too long in front of a busker at Tottenham Court Road station who is playing a violin.

He has never heard anyone play as beautifully as Sherlock but then those memories of the violin are not alone and in isolation. They are tangled up inseparably from the knowledge that it was Sherlock playing. They were _his_ fingers on the bow and string, _his_ hands holding the instrument, _his_ lips parted in a small smile, _his_ eyes closed inside the sanctuary of notes. The incandescent light coming in from the window where he stood, as the faint smell of seeping tea wafted from the kitchen. A far away rumbling of cars on the street. The sound of Mrs Hudson vacuuming. They were all tied up in a bundle as one cohesive memory. He could not pull out one strand without unravelling the entire lot.

He suddenly felt stiff from standing for so long, came to with a start, slipped a few coins in the empty violin case for the busker and slowly walked to the platform.

He should have gone to the window when Sherlock was playing and he should have wrapped his arms around him. He should have held him and rested his face against that warm lithe back. He should have taken the violin out of his hands and kept it back in the case.

He should have untied his dressing gown and made passionate love to him by the fireside.

********************

Yesterday he had gone to the alley where they had stood for their last stakeout.

At that time of course he had no idea it would be the last stakeout. That he could stand so close to Sherlock, almost trapped by his body behind that damp wall as they waited for a suspect to emerge.

He stood now and looked at the wall. The innocuous, still damp, utterly meaningless wall.

Except that John Watson could see clear as day two men standing there, close enough to feel each other’s body warmth. The older man looking up to the taller younger one with half a smile, just inches away from his lips, filled with that curious amalgam of joy and adrenaline at the potential danger and the thrill of seeing justice done. He could smell the faint tobacco, shampoo, detergent and sweat. He went closer and touched the wall, as though by doing so he could reach back in time and touch the taller man, hold him closer, maybe even kiss him while he could.

Breathe in his smell deeply into his lungs.

Taste him, feel him, look at him with all the love shining through his eyes.

Before everything was lost and there were no more chances left.

**********************

Last week he had gone to the New Scotland Yard offices and stood on the pavement across, not daring to go in.

He saw himself and Sherlock, climbing up the steps, one wearing a jumper and one in a dramatic coat, hands in pockets from the cold, their speech visible as vapours. Sherlock had turned and said something which had made him laugh and shake his head and Sherlock had looked a bit smug as he always did when he made John happy.

_You are mine and I make you happy_ the look seemed to convey now in retrospect.

_Why had he not read it better when he had the chance? Why had he not replied with a yes, and you are mine. Always and forever. Why ??_

*************************

Some weeks ago he had walked round the corner from Angelo’s.

He had not dared to look at it directly but he saw people walking towards it and out from it. Some were carrying takeaway parcels, some couples were walking hand in hand. Had Angelo put a candle on their table? Had one of them said ‘ _It’s not a date’_?. ‘ _We are not a couple’_?

John stood there with tears falling down his cheeks.

Had one of them not had the courage to take another chance and put his hand on top of his partner’s?

_Are you still married to your work?_

_If I am also now a part of your work, every day, in every way, what does that mean anymore_?

Had one of them watched the other steal food from his plate while talking and not taken the chance to just pick up some pasta and feed the other man with tender smile?

Had one of them leaned across and kissed away the smudge of sauce left at the corner of the lips?

With a wink and a promise of more waiting for them as they tumbled into their flat, giddy with laughter?

**************************

He went to the Tesco near Baker Street a few days ago and stared at the shelves full of things.

Milk. They were always out of milk.

The very taste of milk made him sick now.

He saw the jars of honey on the shelf and right there he could see the table in 221B with the spoon dipped in the pot, smearing the honey on a toast and Sherlock’s hand reaching out for it absently as he typed something on his laptop.

No. On John’s laptop.

And then John had snapped at him for getting his keyboard sticky.

He should have tossed that laptop on the floor and held Sherlock’s face in his hands and kissed his sticky lips instead.

Oh and here are the ginger snap biscuits Sherlock liked.

He could hear the wrapper crinkle and then smell the biscuits as his flatmate ate his way through an entire packet, half distracted, sitting on the sofa watching TV while John watched him from the corner of his eye, happy that he was eating.

He should have cuddled closer to him and locked their fingers together and fed him the biscuits and kissed away the crumbs.

***********************************

He stood near the lane where they had escaped from a chase once and Sherlock had turned to him and said “Here, take my hand.”

He had taken his hand then but he should have _never let it go._

When they had reached home after the chase and the surrender, he should have just naturally taken Sherlock’s hand again and traced every one of the calluses with his fingers. He should have lifted the hand to his lips and kissed the palm. He should have run his fingers up the wrist and slender forearm upto the sinewy biceps. He should have taken both his arms and guided it around his waist and walked them both to the table and made Sherlock sit on it so they were at eye level. He should have put his own arms around Sherlock’s neck and brought him closer and kissed him, gently and tenderly till they could breathe no more.

He could still feel the warmth of that phantom hand in his as they ran down the lane, and the tug of Sherlock’s arms and the strength of his grip.

But now when looked down at the emptiness of his own hand it seemed like too heavy a burden to carry.

************************************

John stood near Baker Street and saw someone hail a cab.

As it slowed down and stopped and a man got in, John saw instead himself and Sherlock get in.

Sherlock impatient and imperious as ever, giving instructions to the driver, sitting inside with his collar turned up, eyes sharp as he deduced and calculated and planned with the speed of light. He saw himself sitting next to him, staring out of the window as London rushed by, blurring at the edges.

He saw themselves returning to Baker Street late at night, having solved an exhausting and often dangerous case. The adrenaline high having given way to a crash. Wet, tired, sometimes bloody and injured, almost always hungry. He should have scooted closer to Sherlock and guided his head onto his shoulders so he could have rested. He should have kept his hand on his thighs and patted and soothed him.

When they got home he should have helped him take his coat off and undo the shirt buttons and wipe him dry.

He should have kissed him in the hollow of his throat and held him close and warmed him up in more loving ways than just tossing the towel at him.

***********************

John smelt a familiar scent when he travelled by the Tube yesterday.

It was like Sherlock’s shampoo but no quite. However it was close enough to remind him of those rare lazy days at home when Sherlock would take a shower and wash his hair and leave the bathroom smelling all posh and foggy. Then he would dry his hair and put some products and perform some elaborate rituals to maintain his curls.

Why had he not run his fingers through those curls then? Why hadn’t he got Sherlock to rest his head on his lap while watching TV so he could pat those soft curls and soothe the man whose brain was forever spinning at the speed of light ?

He should have hugged him when he was all damp and warm from the shower and nuzzled his neck and smelt the freshly washed hair.

He should have said the words which would have made sure that he woke up every morning to see those curls on the pillow besides his own.

Or even better, to have those curls tickling his face because his lover had used his chest as a pillow.

************************

He should have loved him more.

He should have told him so.

Every single moment of every day.

Because it was true.

It was the one great truth of his entire life.

.

.

But he had thought they had all the time in the world.

Until suddenly they had none.

And now all he could do was search endlessly for lost time.


End file.
